This space
this aether
between you and me
is passion.
Did you read Beckett?
Suffering of pain lived here
and its sweet wetness
radiating scarlet
lingers faintly like dewfall.
Nowadays I sit and wait--
wait for the air to crackle
(acquiring the pungent smell of ions)
with the downward arc of your hand
moving past the speed
of sound and life.
Did you?
Your eyes, as you deal--
pain for me, pleasure for you--
glisten with rage and worship.
I shudder:
canonization is so much harder
in the twentieth century.
Did you?
I can't
I'll
Our torment elides mere words.
Copyright (c) 1997 {hamlet}Ophelia